


When shall we meet again, sweetheart?

by Lidsworth



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Class Differences, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Valinor is a huge mistake, dark elrond, depressing stuff coming up, it's not as great as Elrond thought it would be, neither is his parental/maternal family, not a happy fic!, not so happy elrond, racism against silvan elves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon arriving to the shores of Valinor, Elrond cannot bring himself to lift his gaze at Elwing or Earendil. It is simply  impossible to accept them as his parents. </p><p>It’s a mockery—he feels—for such impostors to take claim of him as a son when they were not there to care for him. </p><p>As if they spent the grueling, blood soaked years sheltering him and poured in the time and the effort that it took to raise him. </p><p>That right belongs to two elves that Elrond may never see again. </p><p>After harsh words are exchanged, Elrond concludes that coming to Valinor was a mistake.<br/>His heart remains deep in the roots of Arda with his sons, his daughter and his foster father. </p><p>And Elrond is not the only elf who shares this sentiment. He has an entire society of Silvan elves whose culture is just dying to be eradicated standing right behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morteledraco](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=morteledraco).



> Upon arriving to the shores of Valinor, Elrond cannot bring himself to lift his gaze at Elwing or Earendil. It is impossible to accept them as his parents.  
> It’s a mockery—he feels—for such imposters to take claim to him as a son. As if they spent the grueling, blood soaked years sheltering him and poured in time and effort that it took to raise him.  
> After harsh words are exchanged, Elrond concludes that coming to Valinor was a mistake.  
> His heart remains deep in the roots of Arda, buried in the ground with his brother that rots, ignited within the breast of his daughter that will die a mortal. Bestowed upon his sons who will never returned to him, and caught in the harp strings of a father who wanders alone on the shores.  
> And Elrond is not the only elf who shares the same sentiment. He has an entire society of Silvan elves whose culture is just dying to be eradicated standing behind him.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond arrives in Valinor.

Elrond’s breath catches in his throat as the golden light of Valinor stretches over the horizon, reaching the front of his boat before the ship even breaches the sacred shores.

Behind him there is a commotion on the deck, an annoying shuffle as elves of all kind take in the sight before them. 

Great comfort does the radiance of Valinor bring to the Noldor, tired of their time spent in exile. Excitement it brings to others, specifically the Sindar, whose journey that began ages ago now comes to its end.

A mixture of the two though he is, Elrond shares very little in their excitement. In fact, he feels oddly empty.  

As the boat comes to a steady row, and the light--now positively blinding--is parted like a delicate curtain, revealing a rather urban-colonized, treeless land, heavy tension seems to eat away at the comfort and joy felt by the Sindar and Noldor.

The Silvan are more reserved and cautious at their arrival, peering with uncertainty at the high towers of gold and the long buildings of silver that seem to consume the land like hungry worms. The trees are scarce, forests even more so. Where there should be moss eaten bark and a canopy of leaves, there is instead a market full of wooden stalls, barren of leaves and bark.

There is smoke in the distance, and a few of Woodland elves bring a cloth to their face in order to stifle a cough or to bat their burning eyes.

The Noldor believe Middle Earth to be a mockery of Valinor; the Silvan believe Valinor to be a mockery of Middle Earth,  with its sectioned woods and polluted air poisoned with the smoke of the forge, and it’s buildings that unrightfully scrape the sky despite such a right being reserved for the aged trees.

They [The Silvan] do not belong here. They do not belong to the Grey Havens. They are wild things, fey and mysterious. Their hearts are of Middle Earth.  

Elrond shares their misgivings, though partly for another reason. His heart is like theirs. Remaining deep in the roots of Arda, buried in the clay breast of his rotting twin, ignited in the soul his daughter that will die a mortal, bestowed upon his sons who will never return to him, caught in the harp strings of a father who wanders alone on the shores.

He feels like he has done his family a great disservice due to some sick obligation.  Feels like he will step onto these white shores and align himself with a “mother” and a “father” who do not deserve the title of such. Will surround himself with a “family” of blood relatives who know little about him and vice-versa.

The ones he loves are bound to the world of Men, be they elf or mortal.

When wet grains of sand shift beneath the smooth wood and the swan ship comes to a sudden halt, throwing the elves forward with a start, Elrond closes his eyes slowly and releases an agonizing breath.  

Sailing to the West was a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond gets something off of his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elrond meets his parents and wife. The moment we’ve all been waiting for! I won’t have much in regards to the Silvan elves, so I’m sorry if you’re waiting to get more into that! that will be in the following chapters!  
> Anyway this is going to be very angst filled  
> As usual, please mind any spelling or grammar errors! I am my own beta, so my stories are always bound to have some.

Elrond remembers how his heart had nearly dropped into the pit of his stomach and shriveled into a crisps when Maglor had eventually gathered the strength to finally speak honestly and truthfully about what fate had befallen Elwing.

His young face had aged nearly a thousand years suddenly.  His once eager eyes (eagerly awaiting his mother’s return, anticipating a tale of the fight that she put up to protect her sons) had grown red with anger and heavy with sadness as the poet uttered his solemn words.

With each shaken syllable that rolled off of the elf’s tongue, Elrond’s body tensed and his eyes darkened, until he resembled a rather upset, unhappy statue.

So unlike his younger brother, Elros trembled like he was a block of ice, and hot angry tears rolled down his cheeks as he fought to collect himself.

How Maglor despised what this conversation had done to the children.

They bore their gazes—one unreadable, the other red and puffy—down upon the old elf, who kneeling before the two elf children on his knees would have been eye level with the twins had he not averted his tearful gaze in shame.

They listened on as Maglor mournfully spoke, soaking in his tale like two dry sponges.  Oh how the twins wished he were lying Yet Maglor wore his heart on his sleeve, and he spoke no misgivings in his confession.

As the conversation drew to a close, and Elrond grew more detached, his brother did the exact opposite. If Elrond was a statue, by the end of it all, Elros was a volcano.

Maglor had barely managed his finish, choked up as he was. Though as soon as he had sputtered the last sentence, he had stood as quickly as he could and left the twins in their room to process what they had just heard.

And  _ oh,  _ had they much to process. Anger. Rage. Sadness. Fear. All these sensations had once been directed at the Kinslayers, but no longer were they deserving of the agony that the twins carried with them.

In fact, the Sons of Feanor were the least deserving.

There was a choice to be made by the twins that evening. Though unnecessary to the Feanorians, Elrond and Elros found it pivotal that they evaluate whom their loyalties remained with.

Should they grieve over the woman who prioritized a jewel, which she had no claim to, over their lives?  Yearn for the presence of a mother who would rather jump to her death, thus leaving them behind in the hand’s of the Kinslayers, rather  than sacrifice the Silmaril and save them? A mother whose selfishness saw an entire court of loyal servants and nurses slaughtered because of her lust for one jewel?

Or accept the weary elves who had spared them their wrath and done their best to care for them,  despite having no obligations to do so, and by their Oath should have ended their lives?

Their mercy had outshone what little their mother had offered them.

Maglor and Maedhros were no saints nor were they pretending to be such, and a life of pain and suffering had seen them repenting for their deeds. But their “mother” had pretended to be a mother until it mattered, and their father had been on the other side of the world and had not returned for them. Ever.  

It wasn’t hard for the twins to decide whom to align themselves with.

Therefore, to the brother’s great dismay, Elrond and Elros forsook the names Maglor and Maedhros that day. Rather, they called them “ada” from that day forward.

OOOO

 

Elrond eyes are drawn instantly to the Silmaril that proudly hangs above Earendil’s golden brow, and immediately he regrets looking at the damned thing.

 

He recalls what catastrophe it’s thievery caused in his childhood home, recalls how the absence of the jewel drove his fathers’ to their insanity. To see the solution to such devastation resting atop of the golden elf’s head churns his stomach with uneasiness. Although its primary purpose is to illuminate the sky, the sight of Silmaril has only darkened Elrond’s mind.

How unfortunate it is, that this cursed rock is the first image he has to associate with his  _ father.  _

Beside her husband stands Elwing. Her pale face, cradled in dark hair,  is tear stricken, and her eyes are swollen and red rimmed. But other than that,she is just as Elrond remembers her.

For a moment, the Half-Elf forgets himself and his cruel resolve. The wounds that the jewel have reopened all but heal over.  He moves forward just slightly, and for a millisecond the corner of his mother’s lips turn upward in a smile, and his father stretches out his arms just slightly, in order to embrace his son.

But he remembers her running away, he remembers her leaving he and his brother behind. He remembers her letting her servants  _ die  _ for the sake of a jewel.  The jewel that drove the elves who cared for him to their insanity—to their deaths (Maglor might as well be dead. He is insane and beyond  reason, wandering on the shores and playing his harp like maniac). 

The jewel that sits on Earendil’s head. And for what? A damn light?

Elrond suddenly recoils, and all joy melts from his face. Tensions rolls off of his body in waves, and animosity boils just underneath his skin. But ever the wise and powerful, Elrond remains perfectly still in body and dim in expression, while his soul fluctuates like a dangerous fire.

It can’t help that he is in public, and that his parents had chosen to greet him in what must be the equivalent of a town square. He did not ask for a welcoming committee, and had hoped to pass undetected in Valinor and speak quietly to his wife before all others (he only hopes that what is to come next does not attract her).  But he has gathered the attention of passersby now, as his fea licks and bites at every elf and maia that’s within a mile range of him.

No doubt his parents feel this.  

“My son…”

It does not matter which one said it, it just matters that it was said. The word triggers him worse than the theft of the Silmaril. He has half the mind to snap viciously at his parents, though he proceeds with care. He wants to make this as quick and silent as possible.

“Please.” Elrond holds his hands up in front himself defensively and takes a cautious step backwards as his parents step forward. Had he the ability to, he would have turned and retreated and perhaps embarked on this conversation another day. It was much preferred than this.

However a congregation of elves stagger behind him, and neither understand nor support his reluctance to greet his family. Least of all not the Lady Galadriel. He owes them an explanation now, and to avoid the subject by lying goes against his morals. They have forced his hand, and he must come clean now.

No need for false hope.

(Elrond wishes that the hobbits had lingered a little longer. But the journey had been too much for Bilbo, and he and Frodo had been promptly escorted to their new dwellings by Mithrandir. Elrond would have liked to join them).

“My Elrond? What troubles you? Why do you hesitate to greet your father and I?” Empathetic to his emotions, Elwing is on the verge hysterics, and for all the anger that he holds for her, his heart aches for the woman before him. Yet he does not move, nor does he respond.

“You have returned to me, my son. Why do you not rejoice?” There’s an audible gasps amongst the crowd as Elwing steps away from her husband and pulls her son into an embrace, “I have missed you, Elrond! Have you not missed me?”

Elrond’s response is again one of silence and stillness. He is a statue in his mother’s embrace.

With shaky palms, she brings her hands to her son’s face, rubbing her thumbs in circles atop of his cheeks, burying her fingers into his silky hair and forcing him to look into her eyes.

Almost instantly, she is taken aback by the detachment in his…in his glare. Her cries are no longer those of joy, instead they morph into wails of agony.

“Why do you look at me like that?! Like I am the greatest evil you have seen?  Why do you not speak?!” Her hands drop from his face and onto his chest, where she clutches the smooth fabric of his tunic like a lifesource, “My son-“

Gently, but firmly, he grabs her thin wrist and slowly removes them from his clothing. His gaze is unreadable as he looks down at his mother, who inturn stares at him with a most sorrowful expression.

“Mother,” he strains the title through his teeth, and speaks it as if it dries the moisture from his mouth, “I—Forgive me. But I cannot bring myself…”

He remembers her leaving. Her remembers he never returning.

“I cannot bring myself to forgive you.”

Now there is a cry of disbelief amongst them all. What does the Lady Elwing have to apologize for?

“I don’t  understand…what-“

What restraint he has dissolves at such an idiotic question. Did she truly believe that there would be no bad blood between them? Did forget what offense she had committed against her two sons?

How dare she feign innocence?  How dare she play victim? For the first time in ages Elrond allows his anger to seize him, and he finds himself speaking in tongues of fire. 

“I do not understand, either, my Lady Elwing. I do not understand what evil prompts a mother to sacrifice her servants—whom I loved like family--and abandon her two children to the wrath Kinslayers for a jewel that  _ you,”  _ Elrond speaks sharply as he looks towards his father, “Wear on your head as if it is your birthright. For all my long years in Middle Earth, I have tried to make sense of what happened that day. I have tried to forgive you for leaving me—for leaving us. But  I cannot bring myself to. I often wonder had you raised us, if Elros would still be with us. But I see that guiding the jewel to father outweighed your need to nurture us.” 

“I don’t understand, how  _ you _ could call me your son—either of you—when you are not my parents. When you did not raise me or search for me.” Elrond’s voice is unnaturally high, and he  is heaving by the end of his speech. Tears roll down his cheeks uncontrollably, and the wise-elf shakes with pure rage. Wide eyed and speechless, the elves around stare in utter shock.

It dawns upon Elrond that he has never expressed how he felt about his family to anyone, and at the moment of confronting those he felt forsook him, he cannot control his emotions.

The reputation of Elrond the Wise and all connotations that come with the title shatter as he speaks. Though it is of no loss to him. For once he can be himself.

“We share the same blood,” Elrond is quieter now, drained and shaky in voice, “But that is it. You did not raise me, neither of you. You did not feed me, nor did you shelter me. You did not tend to my wounds, or my nightmares or my wellbeing. I have Maglor and Maedhros to thank for that, mother. My two fathers. Did you know they should have killed me for your thievery? Of course you did, you were victims to their family before, yet you left me to their mercy!”

His voice has risen again, and his mother hangs from his hands like a lifeless doll.

“And mercy did they show me. More so than my own mother ever did. And I accepted them as parents, and their losses became mine. Their hurts became mine. I watched,  _ Father _ , as the absence of that jewel atop of your head drove them to insanity, I cried as my only to parental figures became unrecognizable to me!”

And unrecognizable they had become. They were like dogs who had an appetite for the jewel and the jewel alone. Though so unlike his mother and father, they put an end to the Silmarils poison.

“And Elros tired of elves, unwilling to live an eternity where those he loved died, chose humanity. Where were you mother, to reassure him? Where were you father to comfort him? Where were either-“

There is a stinging pain on the side of his face, one that bears nail marks and a heavy palm. To his dismay, Elrond is almost certain that a rather noticeable bruise will follow. Expecting  it to have been Elwing, he looks in horror at the woman who struck him.

“You speak of failed parenthood, Elrond” Sneered Celebrian, looking as young and valiant as she did they day they first met,“Yet you return to me with no children. How dare you raise your voice and side with the men who brought havoc to middle earth? How dare you forsake your mother and father? How dare you speak as if you are better than them when you have left us childless!”

Elrond had originally wanted to speak to his wife privately before anyone else. In fact he had yearned to see her more than anyone else.  Had he done so, perhaps this episode in the town square could have been avoided. Perhaps she would have sided with him.

But it is too late now, and to negate her claims would brand him a hypocrite.

“Celebrian, I have no excuse for returning to you childless. I have no excuse for allowing our daughter to choose the fate of man for herself, or for our sons to remain in Middle Earth, only that I am their father, not their jailor.”

Celebrian sees red as Elrond manages to slip in a sarcastic remark in the midst of such tension. She has waited for her children for years. She has yearned for their arrival in Valinor. And what is she gifted with?

“You have failed me again, Elrond Peredhel. Blessed we are of Finwe’s line, for I may choose to follow his path in the near future and sever my bonds with the likes of you! You whom could not protect me from the orcs nor could you heal my soul. And again you are unable to bring me my children. Better you have stayed silent when you first  laid eyes upon me. It would have spared us both the pain that you have brought us!”

Elrond is very much aware that his wife speaks solely out of anger. Anger spurred by his own rage and rash behavior. Yet her words hold a truth to them that Elrond cannot deny. The weight of what she has proclaimed settles in, and  the blinding fury that has prompted her to speak such venom dies down as she takes in her husband’s broken expression.

Elrond had no choice in leaving his family behind, his parents had the choice to raise he and his brother.

And though the awful comparison is true as day, the guilt still burdens his soul.

Before she can apologize, Elrond has already walked away. Just before brushes past his father,  he leaves his mother their, body slouched and tired, until she finally collapses. The outcry is enough to give him the cover he needs to disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you're a fan of Elwing and Earendil this chapter was not for you. 
> 
> I don’t think Elrond would easily forgive his parents, or if he ever would. I usually talk about this a lot on my tumblr, and finally got an excuse to put it in a fanfic. But honestly, I don’t blame Elrond for wanting nothing to do with them if it comes to that. 
> 
> I wondered about whether or not Elrond would be out of character. But then again we have never seen Elrond angry or very emotional, so I improvised. If I regret one thing, it’s the wall of texts that appear periodically throughout the story. 
> 
> Celebrian is sorry for what she said, though she is brash and arrogant like her mother was when she was younger. She actually realizes what Elrond meant. Next chapter we’ll see the hobbits, more Silvan elves, and Nerdanel! 
> 
> If you have any questions, you can always find me on my tumblr -> inkstranger.tumblr.com (plus i take request and you can read my headcanons)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of his loss, Elrond gains something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, school and work (well work started like a month ago) have started and i'm super busy!   
> that said, I really wanted to get this chapter out, so if it’s shorter than usual, I’m sorry! I know I said I’d touch up on Silvan elves on this chapter, but I’m not sure if I’ll make it (they deserve their own chapter).   
> Also, there’s a lot of Silmarillion content that I don’t post on my ao3, and I want all of you to enjoy all of my works. So check out my tumblr -> inkstranger.tumblr.com 
> 
> I proofread this myself, so there’s room for mistakes. As always, open for critiques and comments! Hope you enjoy!

Not even a full day in Valinor, and Lord Elrond had managed to lose what little of his family that he had let.

His own foolishness and inability to keep his emotions in check had single handedly isolated him from his biological parents and wife, and any chance of reconciliation seemed as impossible as dragging Arwen to Valinor.

He doesn’t regret his words, at least he tells himself such; though he suppose Maglor would be quite disappointed in how he handled the situation, and even Maedhros would chastise him for his unusual brashness.

And Elros…Elrond smiles at the thought, Elros would be standing right beside him.

Though whatever second thoughts he had in regards to his parents, shame on Elwing and Earendil for their assumptions. What in all of Middle Earth had they thought cornering him in such a manner would accomplish? Had they expected tearful hugs and kisses? They had trapped him like foolish children did an aggressive snake, and by Eru did he strike.

Though the poison was never once meant for his wife, and perhaps her words and a further strain in their relationship was what he regretted most of the entire confrontation.

Now an hour away from the situation, and he truly regrets hurting his parents. His anger is real, and his feelings are still valid, but if anything, he wanted to confront them on his own time.

Perhaps things would have been different. He would be walking with his wife to their new home, savoring what memories of their children they had left.

But _their_ appearances triggered him; the Silmaril on his father’s head more so. Never being in such a situation before, where he was made to face the elves who had abandoned him, he had acted quite inappropriately. They could have been a happy family had his mother returned the damned jewel, had his father returned to raise them. But their foolishness and negligence had seen a score of innocent lives taken, and Elrond’s words had been fueled by such knowledge. 

Yes, a redo was in order. But not now, and perhaps not a thousand years from now.  His parents had not given him the time to move at his own pace, hopefully now he had made his message clear.

He walked with lighter steps, reminding himself now, that he had made the right choice.

                                                            OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

To his dismay, he has spent the good half of the day wandering aimlessly through the market while his mind is muddled with fog. Inwardly, Elrond still deals with the conflict of dissing his parents, and the internal battle wages on for longer than he would have liked.

The conclusions he believed he made are trumped when his guilt eats away at him.

It is well past noon when his senses return to him, and the crowd has died down considerably as elven workers close up their many stalls and shops for the day, and make their trek back home to their families.

It suddenly occurs to Elrond, as more and more elves vacate the area, that he has no idea where home is (though he is almost certain that he is welcomed in any of the High King’s lands).

Perhaps he should have secured his dwellings prior to disowning his parents.

He will have to ask his councilor, Glorfindel about this later (he supposes), who will no doubt spend most of his time at the shore or entertaining the hobbits, or perhaps mingling with the Silvan elves. Either way, finding him will not be hard (The golden haired elf had even offered Elrond dwellings in his home in the past, and if it came to that, Elrond would gladly stay with him).

Though Elrond doubts Glorfindel would even want to return to his home.  

He too bore qualms about returning to Valinor, as the people of Middle Earth had captured his heart. Glorfindel only sailed due to his position in Elrond’s household.

In the midst of his self-blame, Elrond spots a shade of red in the crowd, and immediately his heart drops to his stomach. He can no longer move as he looks forward, and a small part of him believes that the Valar have taken pity on he and his loneliness, and granted him the presence of one of the elves that raised him.

One of the elves he needs.

He is advancing towards her before he can truly discern her appearance. He does not see the short stature or the thin body, he does not take in the presence of two hands, and more importantly, he does not see the dress that flails around her as she walks.

Elrond only sees bright red hair.

“Ma—“

His words die in his throat, and suddenly his sprint comes to a harsh halt.

This is not Maedhros the Tall standing before him. She is quite the opposite to be exact.

Her hair is a shade too red, too bright. Her brown freckles are numerous on her tanned cheeks, and her face is round and kind, as opposed to narrow and bony, gaunt with weariness.

There is something rather doe like about her large brown eyes, something sad too.

And despite her red hair and freckled face, “Maedhros” is not the name Elrond puts to her face now.

“Maglor.” The name feels dry on his tongue (for he has not spoken of his father in such a manner in years), and perhaps he says it rather harshly, for the elleth below him winces at the mention of her son’s name. Annunciated with such agony, Elrond has no doubt painted himself as another one of the Feanorian’s helpless victims.

“You are Elrond Peredhel,” She observes quite blandly, “Son of the Lady Elwing and Lord Earendil”.

He fights the urge to sigh. He can only guess what memories such names entail, what guilt his lineage has conjured within this innocent woman.

Of course she knows the story of Lord Elrond. _E_ veryone knows the story of Lord Elrond. Which only means that she is very much aware of what Maglor and Maedhros had done to his home in Sirion.

Though to what extent of the tale she knows, Elrond is uncertain. He truly hopes that she has not lived her long life in Valinor believing Maglor and Maedhros to be a monster who abducted children. Certainly not…

Yet If Elwing is still revered as an innocent victim here, than Elrond highly doubts that Valinor knows anything about the mercy that Maglor and Maedhros bestowed upon he and his brother, Maglor’s mother included.

Perhaps it is his job to educate her, and if not at this moment, ease her worries however little he can.

“You are his mother?” He adds after a pregnant pause, “My _ada’s_ mother?”

She pipes up at his last addition, life returning to her in a quick succession of blinks. She relaxes, body falling slightly and breathe coming easier.

“Yes, I am his mother, Nerdanel” she speaks with whatever pride she can muster, looking Elrond in the eyes.

This is perhaps the first time in centuries that Maglor has been identified as just that, her son. For the look of relief and joy that crosses her features is enough to make his heart melt.

“Then I suppose this makes me your grandson.”

Without fully comprehending what the elf lord means, Nerdanel hesitantly nods, and to her surprise, Elrond smiles. She does too, now connecting two and two.

He is not as alone as he thought himself to be. And apparently, neither is she.

“May I help you get those?” He gestured downward towards the basket she carried, full of fruits and vegetables, “I would love to accompany you home.”   
Something changes at the mention of home, and a shade of shame darkens her face. Though as quickly as Elrond saw, it disappeared.

“Yes,” she answers quickly, “I would love your company.”

                                                OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Elrond is mildly surprised at the state of the exterior of the house, whose condition offers him a sliver into the mind of Nerdanel.

It is quite rundown and unkempt. Vines springs from the overgrown bushes, crawling upwards into the home and digging into the faded brick. The front yard itself has been rendered to a wild field, absent of a walkway or passage of any sort.

There is no order that Elrond can see.

At a time, perhaps seven sons and a father and one grandson and maybe a cousin or two had helped maintain such a high maintenance task with Nerdanel. But that age had long since passed and now Nerdanel is alone.

Elrond does not allow his gaze nor his mind to linger, only stares above the small woman’s head, following her behind the side of the house, where they find themselves in an equally overgrown breezeway.

In the corner of his eye, Elrond spots a rather large shack, hidden in the tall grass. It is dusty and dark with soot and ash. He assumes this to be _the_ forge, Feanor’s forge. 

Part of him expects, as he walks beside it, to be incinerated where he stands. He prepares himself for the sheer ghost of fire that is sure to reach out towards him as he passes the structure, believes that at least some of Feanor’s rage and anger are absorbed into the dead wood and grey embers.

Though upon his passing, Elrond feels an immense sense of nostalgia. Children laugh, metal is clanged, and the home seems happier now than ever. Yet when the forge is behind him, nothing but a memory in the swirl of his robes remains, and Elrond feels unexpectedly sad.

Feanor was a father before he was a “monster” (and Elrond has seen monsters in his life time, and whatever reputation Feanor has does not constitute him as such).

He was a husband and a son before he was a kinslayer.

                                                            OOOOOOOO

The inside is no better than the outside, and it appears to have not been inhabited in for years. Still, the frail elleth places what little food Elrond had allowed her to carry on a dusty table, and hurriedly runs to the cabinets to find dishes to treat her guest with.

When she is unable to reach for a plate stacked practically high, she looks around for a stool.

Nerdanel maneuvers herself around the kitchen with a sense of normality, as if she spends her free time here, despite it seeming abandoned just moments before.

Rotting condition aside, Elrond assumes that she must live here, alone. Perhaps ashamed and full of guilt.

Quickly he puts his basket onto the table and follows her to the cabinet, fishing out what dishes she is too short to reach. Silently, she thanks him as he sets the mugs on the dusty wood, and moves towards the stove to grab the kettle.

Elrond takes his seat again, wincing as the chair squeals under his weight.

Nerdanel works in an awkward silence, filling the pot to the brim and placing it atop of the burner. Quickly, she makes to move, eyeing the produce on the table beside Elrond.

“It’s not on,” he states blandly just as she retreats. Nerdanel pauses slightly, turning to stare at Elrond as if she is unable to comprehend what he is saying.   
“The burner,” he clarifies, “it isn’t on.”

She blinks slowly, almost confused at his observation, though finally whips her head towards the kettle atop of the cool stove.

“Oh! _Oh_! Forgive me! I thought I had turned it on first thing. It has been so long since I have had guest. I apologize for…!”

  
This is painful to watch. So _very_ painful. Elrond knows what loneliness— _extreme_ loneliness can do to a person, for he is a victim of the same agony. So to see his grandmother suffer from his ailment grieves him deeply.

He feels like weeping.

“Grandmother,” Elrond stands from his chair, “Allow me to help you.”

She sighs sheepishly—ashamed, and Elrond’s heart aches.

“When the boys were here, I turned that kettle on first thing in the morning! I didn’t forget things like this,” she confessed rather miserably, “I suppose their absence has waned my mind.”

“Loneliness…it does that to you,” he eased the situation, “You aren’t alone in that.”

There was a chuckle at his half-hearted joke, though what small humor it had granted them melted away into the thick despair in the air.

“And it’s more than just loneliness. I haven’t heard a good thing about any of them, and I imagine there’s not much good about them anyway. It’s selfish of me, I know,” Nerdanel admitted, “Wanting to hear good things about my sons, when they’ve hurt so many people. I only imagine how you must feel, Elrond. They took your home and killed your mother.”

“My mother left us,” Elrond is quick to correct her, “And she never returned. Maglor was like a father to me. Maedhros too. So all words against them hurt me just as they have you. But since we two sad elves are together, and have all the time in the world, let us talk about your sons: My fathers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know! I’m so sorry! Not sure if I liked it. The writing seemed rather shoddy.   
> I debated on adding Oropher’s part in here, and his reaction to the Silvan elves, but he deserves his own chapter and introduction.   
> Anyway, I’m actually writing another story with Elrond, Elwing and Earendil where they meet each other, and it’s not as brutal as it was in this fic. But I did warn “Dark Elrond” lol.   
> Anyway, check out my tumblr! As I said before, there’s a lot of content that I post on tumblr that I don’t on ao3, so if you want to check it out, follow me on tumblr!   
> Have a wonderful week!

**Author's Note:**

> So the first chapter is really short. I just needed to set the appropriate mood. Next chapter Elrond meets his parents and his wife! 
> 
> I have personally never felt as if the silvan would enjoy Valinor, it seems to…hm…how should I say it? it seems too modern for them, to restricted. Not a free forest, not the wilderness, not the outdoors. There home is not Valinor.  
> And the Silvan are my favorite elves, so I want to focus on them just as much as I do Elrond.  
> Given the choice, or proper guidance, I doubt they would have left their home. And to that I tip my hat to Thranduil, given that we are never sure when he left for Valinor or if he did. I assume he didn’t, because there’s a high chance that his people would have followed him, and they would not have liked it at all.  
> The ones who left did so only because the ones ruling them did (and they weren’t even Silvan), and I just don’t see them being proud of their choice.  
> Elrond’s reason is different, yet the same. His heart belongs in Middle Earth, or with people he cannot reach (ie: Maedhros and Elros who are lost to him).  
> Anyway, please tell me what you think and tell me if you liked it!  
> It’s posted on my tumblr now, so you can check it out again at inkstranger.tumblr.com.


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